No Tears for my Father: Part 2: Learning to Love Myself

By Viga Boland

Viga Boland, author of "No Tears for my Father", (awarded a Gold Medal in the 2014 Readers Favorite Book Awards) was a victim of sexual abuse at the hands of her biological father for 14 years.

When true love afforded her a chance to escape, despite flashbacks and insecurities, she relied on the strengths born of her struggles and pain to embrace a new life.

However, in keeping silent about the abuse for over 40 years of marriage, Viga indirectly also made her husband a victim of her narcissistic father. Yet, her husband stood strong beside her: that's what true love does.

"Learning to Love Myself" is a memoir of rebirth and recovery from abuse. But it is first and foremost, a love story: the love of a husband and wife; the love of children; and the love of self.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Viga Boland
• Release date: Oct 14, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311578884

Viga Boland

Viga Boland is the author of 4 books, three of which are memoirs based on the childhood sexual abuse (incest) to which she was subjected from the ages of 11-24. She kept the abuse secret for nearly 45 years, not even telling her husband and family until she was 65. On hearing the details, her small but supportive family encouraged her to write her true story to help other victims of incest realize they are not alone and to increase awareness of this much denied form of sexual abuse. The result of the encouragement was her first memoir, self-published in 2013, "NO TEARS FOR MY FATHER", for which she received a Gold Medal in the 2014 Readers Favourites Awards. Today, at 70 years of age, Viga Boland is a popular speaker at conferences on Sexual Violence. She also blogs and podcasts on sexual abuse, (i-Tunes, Stitcher, Podcasts.com) along with teaching memoir writing in her local library. She is also devoted to helping other memoir writers increase their visibility via her blogs and podcasts at http://www.memoirabilia.ca Viga's 2nd memoir, "Learning to Love Myself" is centered on her story of healing and self-discovery as someone worthy of love. This book is an uplifting and enjoyable read. The 3rd memoir in this series on sexual abuse, "Voice from an Urn", answers questions about Viga's mother's role, if she had one, in the incest. You can listen to sections of this book via her "VIGALAND" podcast. (See Viga's personal website for the links on iTunes and Stitcher) Viga's other book. a semi-memoir, is a very humorous account of her 4-5 years in a Catholic High School in the early 60's. "The Ladies of Loretto", at this time, is only available from Viga's personal website: http://www.vigaboland.com

Book preview

PROLOGUE:

Puppet On A String

This is a must-read chapter for those who haven’t read the original book, No Tears for my Father which is Part One of this memoir.

In No Tears for my Father, I went public with a hideous family secret that I had hidden for over forty years. I was 65 when I first shared with my husband and two adult daughters the details of how my father had introduced me to sex at age 11 and made me his second wife for the next thirteen years. Yes, that means exactly what you’re thinking: this woman was involved in an incestuous situation for thirteen years and her husband, John, knew nothing about her past when they got married.

It is that story, part 2 of the memoir I penned in No Tears for my Father that you will read in a moment. But I need to bring those who haven’t read that first book up to speed. So here, as briefly as I can summarize a 300-page book are the key details.

I left my childhood home at age 24 after being physically and mentally abused, and sexually used by my father since the age of 11.

During those thirteen years, despite going to school and later, entering the working world, I was very much my father’s prisoner. My father dictated my every move and decision. Using my fear of him, he manipulated and controlled my thoughts, bit by bit destroying any fight or rebellion in me. From infancy, I had been terrified of him, his sudden mood changes, his Jekyll and Hyde personality, and the sheer physical power he would unleash during his rages. In my teens, he once mocked me by humming the then popular song, Puppet on a String, saying to me after That’s what you are, eh? My puppet on a string. He found that funny. A big joke. But only he was laughing. Inside, I was crying and dying.

Once my father began molesting me, he worked steadily at convincing me I was ugly and no other man would ever want me. He was so good at brainwashing me that I came to believe him. So when he denied every request I made to attend parties or school social events, I accepted his refusal. When I suggested at twenty-one, that I’d like to date and have a normal life, and he calmly said No, the puppet I’d become completely resigned herself to living out her life as an old maid servicing her father’s needs. I had no fight left in me.

At this critical time my husband came into my life. We were both schoolteachers. When John joined the staff of St. Joseph’s High School Islington in Toronto, my world spun around and turned upside down. I fell hopelessly in love with John, as he did with me. My father knew John existed but nothing more. For a year, my home life stayed the same. But while I was at work, between classes, on lunch, and every other stolen moment I could grab without my father’s awareness, I spent with John. There were still no real dates. We had very little time alone. This may help explain some of questions you ask as you read Chapter One of this book: The Stranger in my Bed.

How and why does a woman keep silent about father/daughter incest for over forty years? How, without resorting to drugs, cutting, alcohol or suicide, and without therapy does she does she rid herself of blame, shame and self-loathing? How does she evolve from a naive girl who was never allowed to date, even as an adult, into a woman who became a loving wife and mother, and a reasonably successful business woman? And how does she finally learn to love herself?

The answers to most of those questions are in this second book, but the rest are in the first book where my story began: No Tears for my Father.

Unlike that first book, Learning to Love Myself is a gentler read, a memoir of rebirth and recovery through love. It chronicles forty-five years in the life of an ordinary family, the heartaches and joys of raising children, and staying together when the going gets rough. But hidden behind all that is the ugly truth this woman continued to fight and hide from those she loves most, a truth that would explain what so often seemed inexplicable.

Viga Boland

To read sample chapters from

NO TEARS FOR MY FATHER, visit

http://www.notearsformyfather.com

To purchase a printed, signed copy of

NO TEARS FOR MY FATHER,

please visit my website at

http://www.vigaboland.com

PART 1: CANADA: 1971 - 1984

Chapter 1: The Stranger in my bed

Viga, I don’t know if I’m ready to be married yet! I didn’t come to Canada to get married, especially to someone who might never want to go live in Australia. And I certainly don’t want to spend my life in this cold country. Right now I wish I was anywhere but here!

I really needed to hear that! Talk about cold feet! Or was it worse than that? John had been talking like this for days, looking for excuses to run. I’d sensed if I gave him a good enough excuse, he’d bolt, but I wasn’t going to give him one, not for another 40 years. So I just stood in the darkened doorway of the house where I was staying, numb, unable to come up with a good reason to proceed with our wedding. I had a job but no money. And only I knew just who John was marrying. If he had known, he wouldn’t now be standing there in the driveway and talking like this. He’d have been long gone.

Well, if you really don’t want to marry me, if you truly think this is bad for you, John, then ... okay. Let’s call it off. It’ll be a bit of a mess given the wedding’s tomorrow, I’d said bravely, not believing what I was suggesting, but we can handle it.

My voice quavered, betraying how scared I was that he might actually agree. He didn’t say anything for a moment and I braced myself for what I thought was coming next. I could feel the tears gathering. This certainly wasn’t how I had expected to feel the night before my wedding.

Aw I’m just tired, he said. It’s been a long day. Let me sleep on it and you go get some sleep too. We’ve got a long day ahead of us tomorrow.

He had climbed into his car, given me a quick wave and backed out of the driveway. No good-night kiss. No reassuring smile. I closed the door and let the tears fall. What the hell had I done? I’d left the only home I known, prison that it had been, for my love of this man who now wasn’t sure he wanted to marry me. Indeed, I was having my own doubts and his hesitance wasn’t helping at all! But I couldn’t and wouldn’t go back to where I’d been. Yet, without him, I felt I couldn’t go forward either. I’d thrown myself onto the lumpy mattress wondering how on earth at this point, we could inform all eighty invited guests there’d be no wedding in the morning.

The next morning, yesterday, I’d woken early. Or had I even slept at all? I had been so worried about so many things, not the least of which was would John even be there at the front of the altar waiting for me to come up the aisle. He’d been so uptight that entire past week. His actions had made me think he’d rather jump into a volcano than go through with this wedding.

And now, here I was this morning, lying beside him, my husband. I desperately needed to pee but I didn’t want to get up. Ignoring the pressure, I rolled over. I had to be sure I hadn’t dreamt all this. I opened my eyes. John’s face was one inch from mine. He was all I could see and he was real. No, I wasn’t dreaming: yesterday had really happened. The proof was lying right beside me, snoring ever so gently and I still couldn’t believe it.

I wanted to touch his face, run my fingers down his cheek, touch the short beard he’d trimmed so carefully for the wedding, but I didn’t want to wake him just yet. I needed to lie there, look at him, reassure myself that now, he really was my husband, and nothing and no one, especially my father, could change that.

John stirred. He snuffled a snore and I stifled a giggle. I felt silly, giddy like a schoolgirl. We’d done it! We’d tied the knot! And now here I was lying in bed beside this gorgeous man whom I truly barely knew. It seemed surreal, something I’d have to get used to. In fact, there were lots of things I’d have to get used to in my new life, new in more ways than just being a married woman. I had so much to learn, but especially about this man sleeping beside me. I studied his face, his high intelligent forehead. I tried to see the dimples I’d found so attractive when I first met him: they were buried under that beard he’d decided to grow last summer. I’d hoped he’d shave it off because it prickled when he kissed me. It hid those dimples he hated but I loved. What else was hidden beneath that handsome exterior? I had so much to learn about this stranger in my bed.

So different now from yesterday: I’d started shaking almost uncontrollably with the first step up the aisle, my breath coming in short gulps. Frank, a close family friend who had kindly consented to give me away, tightened his grip on my hand and smiled reassuringly at me. Eighty pairs of eyes turned toward me but their faces were a blur. I was looking for only one face: John’s.

There he was, waiting near the altar with Dennis, his best man. Dennis later joked, that it had been his job as John’s best friend, to make sure John didn’t bolt. For years after, Dennis would recount how he and his wife were ready to tie John to a chair to make sure he didn’t run the night before. But John was there now and the only time I took my eyes off him as I made my way up the aisle was when I glanced at the front pew, looking for mama. There she was, her sad, nervous face trying to smile, trying to be the happy mother of the bride. She was worried like I was that my father might suddenly appear with a gun and blow us all away.

Hi ya kiddo! John said as I joined him at the altar.

John’s beautiful smile lit his handsome face as he called me by his favourite name for me and I slid my arm through his. My nerves evaporated with his greeting. It was truly happening. He hadn’t taken the next flight out of Canada after all! I knelt beside him, barely hearing anything the priest was saying. Instead, I noticed the sneakers the altar boy was wearing under his robes and hoping my heels wouldn’t get caught in the hem of my dress when I finally stood up. My heels didn’t get caught but John’s big foot stepped on my train as we were about to leave the office after signing the register. Off came the hooks on my dress. Amid lots of nervous laughter, mainly mine, there was a frantic scramble and search for a safety pin. Father Mark didn’t keep safety pins in his office, but perhaps a paper clip would do the trick? Minutes later, Father was introducing Mr. and Mrs. Boland to the congregation and we walked happily down the aisle out into showers of confetti. Under the brilliant sunshine of a hot July day, we’d begun the rest of our lives together.

Everything had seemed so normal after that: photos at Edwards Gardens followed by our very simple, self-funded reception in the basement of the Sir Nicholas Tavern where we hoped we’d find enough dollars in the wedding money box to at least cover the booze. Just a normal, small wedding except for no father of the bride beaming at his daughter during the father-daughter dance. John, for his part, had guided my teary-eyed, nervous mother through a dance that should have been a wonderful memory for her, but she’d been too worried about what she would face once she arrived back home.

What are you smiling about beautiful? John asked, interrupting my memories.

He was awake. I’d been so lost in recollection I hadn’t even noticed he’d stopped snoring and was looking at me. I giggled. The tension of the past few weeks and yesterday suddenly released itself and I began laughing uncontrollably.

I was just picturing us during that first dance, I laughed. I’d never been so embarrassed! John and I had never before danced together. For that matter, we’d never really dated. Our wedding day was our first formal date, and that wedding dance ... oh boy! What a disaster! His big size 11’s stepped on my shoes time and again. When I wanted to go one way, he went another. What a hilarious sight we must have been!

Why on earth did you tell the DJ to pick a Strauss waltz for our wedding dance? I asked him now. Of all dances...!

Well, the waltz was the one dance we’d been taught at school, he said, and I thought I knew how to waltz.

I tried to stop laughing, but I couldn’t. Oh my God, John! That dance was horrible! I couldn’t wait for it to end. You were flinging me around the room, stepping on my toes...! All I could see was my friends cracking up and my mother looking on in embarrassment, covering her mouth trying not to laugh with everyone else. It was so obvious we had never danced together before!

John was laughing now too. Well I guess we have lots to learn about each other, don’t we? He looked at me lovingly, then pulled me close to him. And we have a whole life ahead to do it.

Holding me tight, he winked mischievously and began kissing my neck. Wanna fool around?

Goosebumps erupted all over me, down my arms and legs, but oh my god, I really needed to pee! I started to protest but the more I protested, the more he muzzled that prickly beard into my neck and ears...and the worse that ignored urge to pee became.

Stop! I can’t stand it! I screamed. Stop!

Oh you love it, John countered, blowing into my ear.

No! Stop! I screamed. If you don’t, I’m gonna wet the bed! I untangled myself from the sheets and ran for the toilet. I’ll be right back. Don’t go anywhere. I shouted.

As if I would, he called after me. We’re putting the rest of today on hold. And take the phone off the hook. Mr. and Mrs. Boland are playing house today.

Chapter 2: The Honeymoon

So, how do you like the idea of roughing it?

I don’t ... much ...

We were discussing honeymoon plans over breakfast at our tiny cluttered table/desk. As teachers, we had the long summer break ahead of us.

But it’ll be fun, John persisted. His eyes twinkled with excitement at the possibilities of seeing places never yet seen. We have time to travel Canada as far East as Newfoundland. By camping, we can afford to do what neither of us has ever done: see a good deal of this country. Quebec has such wonderful old architecture. We can visit Ottawa and see the parliament buildings. Then we head for the Atlantic provinces...all the way to the rugged coastline, maybe even into the US for a bit at Maine. It’ll be amazing. And all the photos I can take! What do you think?

I didn’t think much of the idea at all. It was hardly the honeymoon I had in mind. I would have preferred what Rico (whose heart I’d broken) had suggested to me years ago: a honeymoon in Italy, gliding in a gondola in Venice, throwing coins into the Trevi Fountain...so much more romantic than camping in a pup tent in mosquito-infested woods and bathing in cold Canadian lakes. Nothing romantic about driving thousands of miles day after day, pitching a tent, and cooking canned beans over a campfire.

But it’ll be fun! John persisted. A lot more fun than flying to one location, staying in fancy, over-priced hotels, paying a fortune for every meal, and only seeing one place instead of hundreds. What don’t you like about it? Let’s face it: we don’t have much money. If we run out, we can turn around and head home. I’m just being practical...

Yes, there it was. If John was anything, as I was learning quickly, he was practical. Even well before the wedding, on my birthday, he’d given me a gift in a huge box. Excited, I’d opened it to find a large wall clock. I was speechless. A wall clock? As nice as its diamond-shaped brown and gold frame was, what kind of birthday gift was that for a guy to give his girlfriend of a few months?

I’m just being practical, he’d said. I figured since we were going to get married one day, this would be more useful than some silly, little meaningless gift. Don’t you agree this makes more sense?

I looked at his handsome face and sensed his delight in giving me such a practical gift, but in my insecurity and shock, I’d merely mumbled, It’s very...er...nice. Thanks.

And as much as he was practical, he was also frugal, very frugal. His practical frugality caused one of our first disagreements right after we finally vacated the bed the day after the wedding to do a badly needed grocery shopping. As we pushed the buggy down the dairy aisle of the local supermarket, he’d reached for a tub of the cheapest margarine on the shelf at the same time that I grabbed a pound of the delicious, but expensive Lactantia butter.

We don’t need that, do we? He asked in surprise, eying the butter in my hand. It’s so expensive!

But I’ve never eaten margarine! I countered. The very idea disgusted me. My mother only ever used butter. That margarine you’re holding is horrible stuff.

What’s wrong with it? John looked indignant, even slightly offended. My mother used margarine all the time. All three kids were raised on it and we’re all healthy. And it costs one hell of a lot less than butter! It’s just good sense to use something more economical to do the same thing, isn’t it? I’m just being practical, love.

Reluctantly, even somewhat resentful, I put the Lactantia back on the shelf. So this was how it was going to be, I thought to myself. I’d just left a home where a man had ruled my every thought, action and decision for nearly twenty-four years. Was another man now going to tell me what to do for the rest of my life?

I fought the tiny wave of anger niggling at me. I wanted that butter! I’d gag eating margarine! John sensed my hesitation and smiled at me. I wanted to stay mad but I couldn’t. Oh what the heck! It was only a little thing, and yes, I suppose it made sense to save pennies where we could. Since my father had insisted I don’t touch the vacation pay they needed for the upcoming mortgage payment, we only had John’s pay on which to live Margarine made sense.

So did a camping honeymoon I decided as I got up to clear the breakfast dishes off the table.

Okay, I agreed with as much enthusiasm as I could muster. Camping it is!

******

How do two relative strangers who’d never even dated before getting married handle being stuck together mile after mile for hours on end? Well one of the first things John came to know about me was my bladder control was out of control and pit stops would be required every two hours! As we pulled into yet another highway gas station so I could relieve myself, noticing the attached coffee shop, John said:

Any chance you could skip picking up a coffee this time?

I pretended I hadn’t heard. Have you got a dollar? I’m dying for a cup of tea.

He sighed and reached into his pocket, realizing his practical suggestion that I don’t pick up a coffee or tea at every pit stop was falling on deaf ears.

For my part, I learned that the cheapest hamburger on the menu was the only choice that made sense to John:

You don’t need cheese on that burger do you? You’re always complaining that you’re putting on weight with all this sitting in the car, so why don’t you skip the cheese? Twenty-five cents extra for a slice of cheese is a bit rich, don’t you think?

Well, maybe I could have a salad instead?

Did you see what they’re asking for a bit of lettuce and tomato? For that price, we could buy a tomato farm. Highway bloody robbery!

Everything else on the menu was ridiculously over-priced so I’d settle for a dry hamburger drowned in ketchup and mustard.

John learned that I had a habit of telling him to turn left when I meant right. I learned that I couldn’t read a map and watch for street signs at the same time. At first, it was funny and we both laughed about it, but after thousands of miles, we both sat in sullen silence, each blaming the other for missing the exit we needed or not pulling into the last pit stop when my bladder was bursting.

Then there was the camping scene. We’d haul into the cheapest one...or often the only one we could find after hours of driving...and pitch the pup tent. Rather, John would pitch the tent while I, useless with a hammer, watched or located the facilities which ranged from okay to dreadful: toilet cubicles with no doors, showers with only cold water, sometimes running rusty brown, and water so hard that soap wouldn’t lather and I couldn’t wash it out of my hair. I longed for warm showers and soft fluffy dry towels that weren’t still wet from the morning’s cold shower.

Frying sausages and heating canned peas on our little hibachi seemed to take forever when we were hungry but downing a couple of beers that I didn’t like and John loved, helped lessen the tension I felt. I was quickly learning what roughing it meant. But when, after checking for spiders and creepy crawlies, we finally snuggled into our sleeping bag and made sweet love, everything was okay again in this new role of being a married woman.

But then there were those sleepless nights, those where the memories surfaced no matter how hard I tried to push them back under. I’d close my eyes listening to the unfamiliar night sounds of the open forests, interrupted now and then by John’s snoring. My father’s face would loom before me, once crying, then angry, still threatening, ever frightening. As I lay in the dark surrounded by thin canvas, it was near impossible for me to believe he was no longer in my daily life, dictating my every move; no longer sneaking into my room at night after mom had gone to sleep to have his way with me.

I knew he wasn’t there and yet I could smell the whiskey on his breath, feel my body tensing, cringing, wanting so much to pull myself away from his touch. One time, in tormented desperation to escape him, I jerked so quickly in the sleeping bag that I kicked the tent pole hard enough to bruise my leg.

I knew if my father could see us now, he’d be laughing at us. I clamped my hands over my ears to block out the sounds of his scoffing. He’d be